


In Darkness Enveloped

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dark Ritual, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If he did it, then no one would have to die.Ifhe did it.
Relationships: Alistair & Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Alistair stood in front of the armor stand as he removed the various pieces of his armor. He was too nervous to sleep, too restless to do anything except pace. It struck him as a potentially bad idea to rack his armor before the march to battle, but there was nothing else to distract him from the growing worry that the battle would end in failure. And he had been sleeping in his armor off and on for _months_. One night surely wouldn’t kill him, right?

The Archdemon would pick tonight, of all nights, to show up over Castle Redcliffe and destroy it in a single breath. Alistair dwelled on the thought for a moment, considering the irony of it. The Archdemon had proved elusive for _months_. Maybe it would sense him in his smalls and decide to lead the charge now. Oh, that would be just his luck. But he’d had that dream before, showing up to fight the darkspawn, somehow missing his pants.

Alistair shoved the thought out of his mind and focused on his task. Grey Warden armor, he’d learned, was not like templar armor. It was designed to be removed by the wearer, for one thing, and for that bit of ingenuity, he had been immensely grateful. An incomplete set of plate armor was worn over a deep blue gambeson lined with scales. His helmet was already racked, a winged thing that he supposed was to invoke imagery of griffons of old but had always made him think of a bat. It boasted a lot more scars than it did this time last year.

And it would have even more before it was over.

Alistair removed the components of his armor as he’d learned in the Chantry. He started with the boots and the gauntlets, then working up his arms and legs, to the couters on his elbows and the poleyns on his knees, to the tassets belted around his waist, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and finally the breastplate. His lips curled in a smirk as he belted the last piece onto the stand, standing there in his gambeson and his leathers. _Well, if the Archdemon is going to attack Redcliffe, now is the moment_.

A knock came at the door, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Alistair groaned, storming across the room and opening the door in a panic. He almost expected one of the guards out in the corridor, perhaps ready with the news of their imminent death. But it was Grecia and Morrigan. He wasn’t surprised they were still awake, but he was surprised to find them at his door. At least no one here would call him _my king_. “What’s going on?”

“Can we come in?” Grecia asked.

“Well, who am I to deny my betrothed?” Alistair asked, with more venom than he intended seeping into his tone. He pulled open the door and allowed the women into his room, then shut it behind them. “So now will you tell me what’s going on?”

“This is about tomorrow, and it is not…a request that I make lightly,” Grecia began, and something about her tone filled him with dread. She was fully dressed in her leathers despite the hour, her chestnut hair drawn out of her face. “We are friends, right?”

Alistair crossed his arms over his gambeson. “Just friends?” he repeated sourly. “Last I heard, we were getting married when this is all over. Came as a bit of a shock to me, to be honest. I didn’t even know you felt that way toward me.”

It was Morrigan that glared at him. Grecia, to her credit, appeared unsurprised by the acidity of his tone.

Grecia stared past him, at a point above his shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him that she looked _nervous_. He had never seen her look nervous before, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “Tomorrow we will go to battle,” she began. “And the Grey Warden who cuts down the Archdemon will die.”

Alistair stared at her suspiciously. “I remember, I was there,” he said slowly, intensely disliking where this was going. His gaze kept returning to Morrigan, silently interrogating the need for her presence in his room. “Riordan volunteered to do it, but Anora is alive and sitting in a cell tonight in case things go sideways. As these things tend to go whenever the Archdemon gets involved. But I’m not seeing how…”

Grecia solemnly met his gaze. “It may not need to be this way.”

Alistair shot an accusing look at Morrigan. “This is because of you, isn’t it? I saw you outside her room earlier. What have you put in her head?”

Morrigan scoffed, but when she spoke, she addressed Grecia. “Do you understand now my reluctance to approach him myself?” she asked sourly. “He cannot get over his own mislike of me long enough to hear you out. ‘Tis a mistake to drag me along like this.”

“No, this concerns him,” Grecia disagreed. “He should be involved.”

“So _now_ I get to be involved in the decision-making process?” Alistair scoffed. “Well, bully for me. So _what_ decision, exactly, concerns me?”

“There is a…way to survive the battle tomorrow,” Grecia explained. She spoke with the cautious reluctance of a woman not entirely convinced. “The Archdemon will kill us if we kill it. Its soul will find us if we are the ones who strike it down and it will destroy us both. I…I don’t know what happens to someone whose soul is destroyed.”

“Riordan has already volunteered to take the lead on this,” Alistair said, although the same concerns had bothered him. He didn’t know what happened to those who lost their souls, but he was pretty sure they didn’t go to the Maker’s side after their death. There wouldn’t exactly be anything left of them to _go_ to the Maker’s side.

“Would you doom him to that sort of fate?” Grecia asked. “And we should consider that the battle will not go as planned. Just as Ostagar did not go as planned.”

Alistair inhaled deeply through his nose. The battle was so long ago, but he could recall it with perfect clarity. Duncan had planned to face the Archdemon himself if it appeared on the battlefield. He’d been having the nightmares for a while, and if they somehow survived the battle, he was going to go to Orzammar soon afterward. He didn’t survive the battle. None of the other Wardens did.

Grecia watched his reactions. “Morrigan came to my room after our meeting with Riordan with an offer, but the offer…concerns you,” she explained hesitantly. “I thought it appropriate that you hear what it is.”

_No._ Alistair already knew that he had no desire to subject himself to anything dreamed up by _Morrigan_. But he found himself withholding the answer. “I’m not promising you anything,” he said.

Grecia offered him an appreciative smile. “It is a ritual, of a sort,” she began, glancing at Morrigan for reassurance. “The Archdemon is corrupted, but the soul is untouched. It is possible for the soul to be absorbed into an—an unborn child, early in the pregnancy. But only if the father is a Grey Warden.”

“ _No_ ,” Alistair breathed, half in horror and half in shock, as he unfolded his arms. “No, no, _no_. You can’t be—Morrigan, she can’t be—”

Morrigan watched him resolutely. Oh, fucking Maker, she _was_.

Alistair stared at her in disbelief. “Why me? Why not go and sink your talons into Riordan? _He_ isn’t physically repulsed by you.”

Morrigan scowled at him. “Because Riordan has been a Grey Warden for too long,” she explained. “‘Tis true that a Grey Warden is rendered sterile by the process of their Joining, but the corruption takes time to cause sterility. Riordan has been a Grey Warden for several decades and is most assuredly completely infertile. You are not. And the ritual will…guarantee conception—”

“ _Don’t_ say it,” Alistair cut off with a sharp gesture of both hands. He looked imploringly at Grecia. “This is a nightmare, isn’t it? You can’t seriously be asking me—it’s like the culmination of all of my fears all at once. A _bastard_ with _Morrigan_ that will have the soul of the thing that killed Duncan! You can’t be asking me to do this!”

“I’m not making this request lightly,” Grecia responded. She was careful to maintain her composure, but he caught the slightest hint of desperation in her voice. “And if you refuse, then we will leave and we will not ask you again.”

Morrigan glanced at her in surprise and…concern. Alistair had never seen her look at anyone with _concern_ , and it was there and gone again so quickly that he might’ve imagined it.

Grecia appeared not to notice. Her eyes were fixed on Alistair, and she was still speaking. “I would never make this request of you under ordinary circumstances, but these are not ordinary circumstances. The best we can hope for is that a single Grey Warden falls in battle and suffers the fate of all soulless. And that is the… _best_ that we can hope for. One death from the three of us.”

Alistair swallowed. He couldn’t stand to think of it spreading beyond their borders and swallowing up the rest of the world. Ostagar _had_ to mean something. It had to mean more than their failure.

Grecia had begun to wring her hands together. “I know things between us have been tense since the Landsmeet,” she continued. “And I know that I’m personally responsible for a lot of that tension. All I ask is that you set it aside for tonight. _One_ night. And I will give you anything. I’ll break off the betrothal and decline to be your queen. I’ll end my relationship with Zevran. I’ll grant you Highever. Ask and I will make it happen for you.”

Alistair found himself intensely disliking this. She was normally so composed and confident, but her voice was starting to break down. And she would leave Zevran? For him? For a political marriage?

Grecia watched him with earnest blue eyes. Her leather gloves creaked as she rubbed her fingers. It disturbed him to see her falling apart like this. He’d been relying on her _not_ doing exactly that for months, and now that he was faced with it, he had no idea what to say.

He _couldn’t_. With _Morrigan_.

Alistair closed his eyes. “Get out.”

Neither woman moved.

“Alistair,” Morrigan began, but Alistair raised a hand to silence her.

“Not _you_ ,” he growled at her. “Grecia. Get out. I—I can’t. Not with you here.”

Grecia stiffened at the order, confusion chasing across her features. She glanced nervously at Morrigan, who seemed to understand what was going and gave her a reassuring nod. “A-alright,” she said, and she lingered there for a moment, as if she didn’t quite know how to excuse herself. The silence stretched on for another moment, becoming awkward, and she finally departed from the room without saying anything at all.

Alistair closed the door again behind her and leaned against it. Morrigan stared back at him expectantly. They were trapped in a room together— _his_ room, the only room he’d ever been given while staying at this castle—and now he was expected to _sleep_ with her. Somehow it was more reassuring to stand with his back against the door. So he could escape if he needed. But he wasn’t going to. Something in his gut told him that he wasn’t.

Morrigan was the first to speak. “Well,” she started, and dusted off her tattered scarf in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. “I suppose we should—”

“No,” Alistair interrupted. If he was going to do this— _if_ he was going to do this—then she was going to put his mind at ease. “No, _first_ , you’re going to tell me about this ritual of yours and what’s going to happen to the—the child.”

“Concerned the child will become a threat to your throne?” Morrigan questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Have no fear. The child will be mine alone to raise. They will have no place in the line of succession and no claim to the throne. Your legacy will be safe.”

“I don’t care about that,” Alistair replied, although he noted, with no small amount of irony, that the same was once said about _him_. It was so ridiculous to think of conceiving a bastard heir with the soul of a dragon that his brain almost couldn’t fathom it. “How does this work, exactly? How is it that a child could absorb the soul of the Archdemon when a Grey Warden would be spiritually torn apart?”

“When the Archdemon is slain, its essence will be drawn to the child like a beacon,” Morrigan explained. “The Archdemon will still perish and the Blight will still be ended. But you Grey Wardens will survive the encounter, unless some other misfortune might befall you on the field. This will not save you from being crushed underfoot.”

“Oh, that’s good to know.”

“Your sarcasm does you no credit, Alistair.”

“The woman who has been tormenting me for the last year is now asking for me to leave her with child so she can have a—a dragon baby. With the soul of an Archdemon. A _little_ sarcasm is warranted here,” Alistair retorted venomously. “And you’re asking a _lot_ from me, you know. And what do you get out of this? Why do you even care?”

“Because some things in this world are worth preserving,” Morrigan replied. “And it will not have the soul of an _Archdemon_. It will have the soul of an Old God. The thing the creature was before the darkspawn found it and corrupted it.”

“And that’s…better?”

“Isn’t it?”

“I…suppose.” Alistair considered it for a moment, but it weighed uncomfortably in his thoughts. He felt wildly out of his depth in this conversation—but he had noticed that she wasn’t mocking him as she normally did. “What is this ritual, exactly? Where did you get it from? Your mother?”

“Of course.” Morrigan nodded. “‘Tis an old ritual, from long before the time of the Circle of Magi.”

“And you trust her magic?”

“Don’t you? She saved you from that tower, after all.”

“Hmm. Point.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. “And it will work, right? Because Grey Wardens aren’t known for their _fertility_ for good reason, and I don’t want to put myself through this only to find out tomorrow that it didn’t even do what it was supposed to do.”

“It will work. This I assure you,” Morrigan said firmly, which was perhaps the closest to _reassuring_ she had ever been. “I have never been wrong about my mother’s magic. Whatever you might think of me, you know this to be true.”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow when we cut down the Archdemon. If one of us falls over dead, then I’ll know it was a failure. And if we’re all left standing…” Alistair trailed off in thought. “What happens after? Are you going to stay in Ferelden? Go back to the Wilds?”

“I will go somewhere safe and raise it alone,” Morrigan answered. “More than that, you need not know.”

“But—”

“No,” Morrigan cut him off. “I will leave after the battle, and you will promise not to follow. We are to be left alone. That is all I desire out of this.”

Alistair actually laughed—a sharp, bark of a noise. “ _That_ is all that you desire? Have you been listening to yourself?” he asked her incredulously. “Dear lady, you’re in my room, asking for my virginity, and you think _being left alone_ is the only demand you’ve made tonight?”

Morrigan closed her mouth and scowled at him. It appeared she didn’t know how else to respond, because when she spoke again, she asked, “Are you refusing?”

Alistair sighed and sagged against the door. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and pressed the back of his head against the wood. “ _No_ ,” he groaned miserably. “But after the Landsmeet, I guess I had assumed that we were all…all done asking too much of Alistair. Maybe it was a stupid assumption to make. Somehow things felt so much more certain the morning after Ostagar.”

“Hm.” Morrigan had something else on her mind, it was clear from the look in her eyes, but she stayed silent. Alistair realized with a start that she was being _nice_ to him. And _that_ was almost too weird to dwell on.

“Alright, alright, let’s—let’s do this,” Alistair said, jolted into action by this uncomfortable revelation. He straightened upright and reached for his belt, then stopped and stared at her. It occurred to him that he had no idea what to do or where to go from here—never mind the fact that he was the farthest thing from aroused. He let out an unsteady exhale. “But first, there’s no…wine or anything? Brandy?”

Morrigan regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Is that…what you desire?”

Alistair let out an uncomfortable laugh. “You would, wouldn’t you? To make this happen? To make me feel better? Oh, _Maker_.” His laugh faded into a groan as he covered his face with both hands.

“Is it so terrible that I want you to be comfortable?” Morrigan snapped. “There is no need for tonight to be unpleasant. Tell me what I must do and I will—I will consider it.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I cannot handle you being _nice_ to me. This is too weird.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair. He was just about completely overwhelmed with the wild turn that his evening had taken, and if he didn’t do _something_ about it soon, he was going to flee the castle and sleep downhill with their assembled army. And then maybe beat himself up for the rest of his life—all two days of it—for letting them down when they were so close to victory.

“Well, then, what do you _want_ me to do?” Morrigan asked him sharply.

“I—I don’t know,” Alistair stammered. No one had ever really asked him what _he_ wanted from anyone else. And the truth was that he wanted Morrigan to be gone from his room. And the other truth was that he wanted the battle to be victorious and the Blight ended.

“You don’t _know_?” Morrigan repeated, flustered. “Alistair, I can handle your rejection, and I would appreciate your acceptance. But _what_ do you expect me to do if you can’t be bothered to make up your own mind?”

“Ha!” Alistair was almost _relieved_ to hear the frustration in her tone. Her being kind to him was too much to bear. “Where has this Morrigan been all night?”

“You are _infuriating_ ,” Morrigan told him, exasperated. “You have the spine of a mushroom, and if you will not give me an answer, then I will take _that_ as my answer.” She clenched her slender hands into fists and stomped across the room. “Move, so that I might prepare for my departure.”

“You’re leaving?” Alistair felt his spine straighten. He didn’t move. “You’re abandoning us? We leave for the battle tomorrow!”

“I’m not—I’m not staying here just to watch you die,” Morrigan shot back, and there was an unexpected surge of emotion that made her voice thick and wet. She stared down at the door handle, rather than looking at him in the face. “I _refuse_. I refuse to go to battle tomorrow knowing that she will likely kill herself to end the Blight.”

“How do you know it will be her and not me? How do you know I won’t be the one to sacrifice myself to end the Blight?” Alistair questioned. “Maybe I don’t want to get married and be king. Maybe I just want to do my duty as a Grey Warden.”

Morrigan stared at him directly. Her eyes were shining with tears, and one rolled down her cheek as she scowled at him. “You are an idiot, Alistair,” she choked out, and it was somehow the nicest thing she’d ever said to him.

Alistair sighed. He reached out and swept the apple of her cheek with his thumb, brushing away her tear in a gesture that surprised her. And it surprised him, too. He’d never touched her before. “So I’ve been told,” he said.

Morrigan blinked at him several times. Then she rose to the tips of her toes and wrapped her pale arms around his shoulders, pressing her mouth against his.


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair pulled away almost immediately, his lips wet and tingling. Morrigan lowered herself to the flats of her feet without removing her arms from his shoulders. _Danger_ flashed in his mind. This was too weird. He was suddenly torn before his impulsive desire to get this over with as quickly as possible and his _other_ impulsive desire to tear out of the room. It was her strange attempt to make him feel better. They were making him feel worse.

“Having second thoughts, are we?” Morrigan questioned as she removed her arms from his shoulders, trailing one hand down his chest.

“And third and fourth thoughts, but don't you worry about me,” Alistair said dryly. His heart was racing fast underneath the hand lingering on his sternum, and he was confident she could feel it. He wore fewer layers without his armor. Now he wished he was still wearing it—even though that would make this worse, wouldn’t it? Because it took so much time to remove?

“You look on the verge of panic.” Morrigan raised her eyebrows and lifted her hand, as if she thought to pull away from him, but her fingers remained against his chest. “Alistair, I swear, if you vomit—”

“I’m not going to vomit,” Alistair interrupted, his ears burning hot. He hid the trembling in his fingers by reaching for the laces on his gambeson. “I’m nervous, that’s all. Surely that’s understandable.”

“Very well. Take all the time you need to calm your nerves,” Morrigan acquiesced. She retreated over to his four-poster bed and seated herself on the edge of the feather-stuffed mattress. Her fingers reached down to unlace her boots, and he realized, with a sudden spell of unease, that she was preparing to strip in his room.

Alistair paced away from the door to the armor stand as his fingers traveled lower down his front. As he untied the last knot, the gambeson fell slack from his shoulders. He tugged it off and draped it over the armor stand, blanketing the helmet underneath. _Wouldn’t want anyone to see what we’re about to do,_ he found himself thinking. He untucked his undershirt with a sharp jerk and hauled it off over his head.

Behind him came the sound of one boot hitting the stone floor, then another. Soon it was followed by the quiet ruffling of clothes as belts were unclasped and laces untied.

Alistair stared blankly at the wall. He had removed about all that he could without taking off his boots, and he suddenly found that he was incapable of turning around. His nerves rooted him to the spot. _Sex with Morrigan_. There were men that swoon at the very thought, but he was not one of them. She had mocked him at every opportunity, teased him relentlessly, and was generally unpleasant to be around.

It baffled him how Grecia could ever befriend Morrigan.

And, perhaps, how Morrigan had managed to befriend _her_.

“Are you going to stand there the whole night?” Morrigan questioned from behind him. Her sharp words were undercut by the softness of her voice. She seemed to sense that her presence was unwanted. “Because if so, I can—”

“No, no!” Alistair didn’t face her, just thrust out a hand behind him. He’d heard the clothes being peeled off in layers. She was probably naked or close to it. And they’d traveled without privacy for so many weeks that he’d seen more of her than he’d ever cared to—but this was different. “Just—just stay there. I just need to…” He trailed off without thinking of an excuse. His exposed skin prickled with gooseflesh, but somehow the rest of him was unbearably hot.

_Turn around,_ he found himself thinking. _Turn around and face her. She’s waiting for you in your bed. It shouldn’t take long. Unless it does._

Alistair felt more nervous about what was going to happen in the next hour than he felt about the next _battle_. It made his muscles tense and his palms itch. He didn’t feel aroused in the slightest. But he sensed her gaze on his back, and the fact that she was content to remain silent almost made it worse. “A-alright,” he stammered. “Alright. Alright. I’m going to come over there and we’re going to do… _this_ …and it’s going to produce a bastard. I suppose there’s no chance that you’re going to lock him away in the Chantry to become a templar, is there?” He laughed weakly and without humor.

“No,” Morrigan answered soberly, “I would not.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s reassuring,” Alistair answered, his eyes on the armor stand. “Not that I really had any concern about—of course, you wouldn’t—I’m babbling. I’m babbling.” He raised his hands and wiped them down over his face, holding them at his mouth. Battling the Archdemon suddenly felt like such a faraway concern. Something to lose sleep over in the future. Tonight he was losing sleep for such a wildly different reason.

Alistair blew out a breath and turned around and—

There sat Morrigan on the edge of the bed, without her clothes, her pale yellow eyes fixed on him expectantly.

“Maker, sorry!” Alistair covered his face with one hand purely on instinct, the apology tumbling out of him without him even thinking about it. It was how the Chantry raised him: to avoid peeping on naked women, to apologize for intruding on their space. But he realized his error almost immediately and forced himself to lower his hand. He was blushing furiously when he looked at her again. “No, that’s not right, is it? This is going to be a lot harder if I can’t—if I can’t even—”

“Take your time,” Morrigan told him, though she made no attempt to cover herself. She had removed her clothes and left them on the floor, and she sat there with one hand on her thigh and the other on the bed. Her skin was so pale that it almost shone in the flickering light of the fireplace, a startling contrast to the black hair that fell down around her shoulders. He hadn’t seen much of her with her hair down, and it struck him how different she looked. Younger, almost.

Alistair was very mindful not to let his eyes drift below her collarbone. It was ridiculous, considering the reason for her stay in his room. The first proper room he’d ever been allowed in this castle, now used to sleep with the last woman he wanted to sleep with. The Maker had a terrible sense of humor.

“Come.” Morrigan laid her hand on the mattress beside her. “Sit.”

Alistair crossed the room on numb legs. A small voice in the back of his mind kept wondering _was this really happening?_ He sat down on the edge of the mattress and immediately busied himself with removing his boots. Her pale legs were there in the corner of his vision, her ankles neatly crossed and drawn close to the frame of the bed. He kept his gaze fixed on his hands, but they were starting to shake so badly that he kept fumbling with the straps. “Sorry about all this,” he apologized, but he didn’t know what he was apologizing for.

“You’re nervous, Alistair,” Morrigan told him quietly. “It’s understandable.”

“So what do we do now?” Alistair kicked off his boots as he spoke, then drew himself to his feet and reached for his trousers. Once he was in his smalls, there was no chance that he could flee the room without embarrassing the arl or their assembled armies. Shame was a great motivator to stay put. “This is a ritual or something, right? So there’s magic involved?”

“I’ve already worked it on myself. I thought it might cause you distress to witness it yourself.”

“That’s probably a fair concern,” Alistair muttered dryly. His hands were shaking, fingers fumbling with the laces of his trousers. _Just get them off, Maker,_ he thought, exasperated. He was babbling just to get his mind off what he was doing. “And what does it do exactly?”

“Do you truly wish to know?”

“Well, I asked, didn’t I?”

“Its primary purpose is to facilitate conception. Its secondary purpose prepares it for the reception of the soul during the battle, to make it a more attractive home than either of you.”

“How clinical.” Alistair loosened the last of his laces. He stared down at his navel, in sheer disbelief of what he was about to do. His thumbs hooked under his trousers and his smalls—he steadied himself with a deep breath—and he tugged them down his legs with several sharp jerks. If Morrigan reacted, he didn’t hear it. His trousers clung to his calves and bunched around his ankles. It was an effort to get them off, and he was sure he looked ridiculous doing it. But at long last, he was fully naked and rather cold in the arid room. He blew out a breath and forced himself to relax his shoulders. “Well! There it is. Now you know what I look like naked.”

Alistair dared to face her, but he felt like his soul flew out of his body just from the sheer force of his nerves. Morrigan, however, looked him over with naked interest. She inclined her head so that her dark hair fell over her shoulders, her pale yellow eyes raking down his chest to his thighs, quivering in the draft.

“Alright!” Alistair rubbed his hands together nervously. “If we could just skip ahead straight to the steamy bits, that would be—that would be something. Just—just tell me what to do.”

“Come here,” Morrigan instructed, inviting him back to the bed. “I suppose there would not be much of a point in asking what you enjoy, would there?”

“N-no,” Alistair agreed as he sank down onto the mattress, keenly aware of how everything felt against his naked body. The covers under his legs, the cold stone under his feet. “I—I suppose not.”

“Tell me if you are ever uncomfortable.” Morrigan shifted closer to him, leaning back on her right hand as she laid her left on his knee, causing him to flinch at the contact. She slid her palm down between his knees and stroked it up the inside of his leg—a sensation that, confusingly, was not entirely unwelcome. He found himself willingly parting his legs. “This does not need to be an unenjoyable experience.”

_Uncomfortable—other than the weird, magical sex ritual?_ Alistair wanted to ask her, but her fingers delved between his legs, and he was suddenly unable to speak.

It was a lot for him to take in all at once: her presence leaning against his arm, the sudden awareness of her naked breast against his bicep, her fingers down between his legs. He sucked in a breath and made a startled noise in the back of his throat—but it wasn’t a _bad_ feeling. It surprised him with how _good_ it felt.

Morrigan had a light touch when she wanted to, and she was gentle in caressing him. Her fingers were calloused—from the staves, he assumed, when he had the presence of mind to assume—but clever and deliberate in their administrations. She touched him very lightly at first, and when his cock started to swell with blood, she circled her fingers around the base and held it in her palm. Alistair heard himself moan when her thumb swept over the tip.

“Good, I take it?” Morrigan questioned.

“Y-yes,” Alistair breathed.

“I’m so pleased to hear it.” Morrigan pressed her warm body against his side as her fingers stroked his length, coaxing more blood until it became a rigid, ruddy thing in her fingers. She released him long enough to smack his thigh, sending a confusing jolt through his body. “Spread your legs wider. There you go.”

Alistair blushed as her approval filled him, making him feel warm as he spread his legs. He leaned back as he placed his palms on the bed behind him. His pulse throbbed in her fingers. As she leaned over him, long strands of her dark hair fell on his naked chest.

_Morrigan_ was doing this to him. _Morrigan_ coaxed these reactions from him.

That thought almost brought Alistair out of the moment, but he sunk back into it when she lowered her head over his lap. “Morrigan,” he groaned, and there was some detached part of himself that was surprised to hear him say her name with such _want_. Then her lips parted around the tip and he swore and dropped his head back. “Oh, _Maker_ …”

The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him all at once. Morrigan drew him farther into her mouth, her fingers cradling the base of his cock, and he was suddenly lost to the ministrations of her tongue and lips. Her hair pooled in ticklish curls on his thighs, and she slid her legs out from under her and lowered herself onto the bed. He found himself panting, clenching and unclenching, deliberately trying to restrain himself. His eyes strayed to the curve of her spine and her long, slender legs.

Then she took him in so deep that he felt himself brush the back of her throat.

Alistair thought he was going to lose his mind over it—he jerked upright, immediately grabbing her shoulder, then releasing it at the shock of _grabbing her shoulder._ Her mouth released him at once. ”Stop, stop,” he cried out.

“What?” Morrigan questioned, alarmed. “Is something the matter?”

Alistair breathed heavily. His entire body felt hot, his flush was halfway down his chest. He curled his toes against the cold stone floor, trying to ground himself in it. “I’m—I’m just—overwhelmed,” he panted, but now that the sensation was gone, he wasn’t even sure what provoked it.

Morrigan seemed to understand. “Lie down,” she ordered, gesturing to the pillows behind him.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder. “Uh, sure.” He crawled back onto the bed and flopped down onto the pillows—it was purely an accident, but his arms seemed to suddenly give out on him. His cock hung obscenely above his abdomen, red and glistening. He was pretty sure this was the part where the Maker struck him down with lightning.

Morrigan raised herself onto her knees and followed him across the mattress. There was no ignoring her nudity—and he realized, at least somewhat consciously, that he was still attempting to do just that—as she repositioned herself. Red-orange light glowed on her back and the backs of her legs. Her black hair hung in long, loose strands. She pressed one hand against his flushed chest as she swung one leg over his hips; she held herself above him as she reached down for his cock. “Ready?”

Part of Alistair desperately wanted it. “Y-yes,” he breathed.

Morrigan held his cock with one hand, pressing the tip into the depths of the glistening, dark curls between her legs. She lowered herself with care—he felt himself bump up against her entrance, then she adjusted her hips, and he suddenly felt himself sink inside.

And _ohh_ , Maker.

Alistair heard himself groan as she eased him deeper inside of her. She was slick with arousal—and some part of him was shocked, because she seemed so much more composed than he did—and her inner walls hugged him tightly. Morrigan lowered herself gently, leaning forward to plant her hands on his chest. It was hard to hold back from rising up to meet her—he ached to plunge himself deeper into her.

And then he was fully inside her, the backs of her legs pressed against his hips. Morrigan let out a shaky breath—she _was_ aroused—and raised herself to the balls of her feet. She straightened upright and moved her hands behind her; he could feel them holding onto his thighs. Another man would swoon to see such a sight: her hair long and loose over her breasts, the fire framing her waist in red-gold light, her pale yellow eyes fixing him with a _look_ from beneath her long, dark lashes.

“There,” Morrigan moaned as she thrust downward. Her voice hitched with arousal despite her apparent attempts to maintain her composure. “H-how does that feel?”

“Good— _oh, Maker_ ,” Alistair swore as he felt her inner walls grip him tighter, briefly, and then she was gliding up again. His spine curved as she came down and his fingers dug into her pale flesh. He gripped her thighs as he pressed the soles of his feet into the mattress, rising up to meet her mid-thrust. The first time he did it, Morrigan let out a startled, breathy gasp, and her yellow eyes fluttered shut in delirious arousal.

He could do this.

Alistair heard himself panting hard, gasps slipping out between his breaths. His skin broke out in a hot sweat as he rose to meet her thrusts. He matched her thrust for thrust, and as she rose each time, he glimpsed his slick shaft before it plunged again into her dark curls. His nerves felt like they were on fire.

“There—there, yes, _oh_ ,” Morrigan moaned, breathlessly praising him. “Good—that’s very good—you’re doing— _oh_ —so well—”

It was the praising that was going straight to his head and making his blood hot. “M-Morrigan,” Alistair gritted out as a warning, but it was the only word he had the presence of mind to speak.

Morrigan leaned forward again, placing both of her hands on his chest. “Keep—keep going,” she implored, her face flushed, her fingers curling against his chest, nails scraping his skin. “Like that—just keep—” She broke off with a moan and shivered, her spine curving, lowering her head over his chest, the long, feathery tips of her hair pooling on his skin.

Alistair heeded the instruction, digging into the mattress with his feet, thrusting into her as she murmured a breathless litany of praises. He felt himself speeding toward his orgasm—and there came a moment, a bright moment, when he realized he’d hit the point of no return. “Morrigan,” he called again, urgently—

And then he was coming.

It was the most intense feeling he’d ever experienced: he felt it chase through his blood, tingling in the soles of his feet. His cock swelled and pulsed, spurting hot fluids into her; his hips snapped erratically against the backs of her legs, despite his feverish attempts to maintain his rhythm. He felt it everywhere, not just his cock, but so sharp and scintillating that it stole his breath from his throat.

Through the haze of his own release, he became aware that Morrigan had reached her own peak. Her thighs clenched and her fingers scraped his chest as she came, moaning the word _yes_ over and over again, her inner walls pulsing tightly around his cock.

Then it was over. And when the orgasm released Alistair, his hands fell from her legs, and his legs fell flat against the covers. He was suddenly wrung out and exhausted.

Morrigan collapsed on top of him and laid her head on his shoulder. He felt her heart beating rapidly against his chest. They were connected below the waist, and he felt each of her aftershocks as they pulsed. It was almost overwhelming. Alistair dropped one hand onto the small of her back, now burning hot and damp with cold sweat. He stared up at the ceiling and thought, with relief, that she hadn’t tried to kiss him a second time.


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair pulled away from her as Morrigan carefully extricated herself from him. They separated themselves to opposite sides of his bed, and the silence filled the space between them. He was compelled to retrieve his clothes and cover himself, but a greater sense of embarrassment kept him in his bed. His cock was half-erect and wet, suspended above his abdomen. It was hard not to be acutely aware of its obscenity, and now that the heat of the moment had passed, maybe he was feeling shy.

_A bastard._ Alistair had just fathered a bastard. It seemed like _something_ should’ve happened at the moment of climax. The skies should’ve parted and thunder should’ve cracked in the distance. The Maker’s voice should’ve boomed over the storm, condemning him for fathering a bastard that he would never know. _Being a bastard has made you so miserable._ But there was none of that. Instead, they laid together in silence, and the fire crackled and popped from the other side of the room.

Alistair wondered if she’d known this was going to happen. “Did you know this was going to happen? Back before the battle, or even right after it, did you know this was where we were going to end up?”

“I did,” Morrigan answered. She had settled on her back with her legs bent slightly at the knee. He was trying not to look at her, but he could see the soft glow of the fire on her skin. “Mother told me about the ritual as the battle raged in the valley. I did not know ‘twould be you who fathered this child until after the battle, when she returned from the tower with the two of you.”

“You’ve known all this time? And you never said anything?”

“What would have been the point?”

“Beating back the Blight, maybe? A warning that a Grey Warden has to die to end the Blight would’ve been nice, you know.”

“Indeed. Your Duncan should have told you before the battle.”

Alistair felt something clench in his chest at the sound of his name passing through her lips. “Don’t,” he snapped, his voice rising with heat. “Don’t talk about Duncan, alright? Just don’t.”

Morrigan glanced at him. He could see her pale yellow eyes searching his face from the edge of his vision. “Very well,” she murmured and settled back on her pillow. “But if I had chosen to tell you about the fate that awaited you, would you have believed me?”

Alistair knew immediately that he never would’ve believed her. He would have assumed she was mocking him or predicting that he would fail at the last possible moment. “No,” he admitted, and the conversation fell silent. The cold was getting to him, creeping in as the hot flush from earlier faded from his muscles. He thought again about retrieving his clothes from the floor.

Morrigan had made no move to leave his bed. Was she meaning to spend the night with him? Was that part of the ritual? He couldn’t throw her out, but he sorely wished she’d leave him alone. She got what she wanted from him.

And what she wanted was a child. Alistair sucked in a breath as he realized that his second move as king—right after rallying their army to face the darkspawn—was to father a royal bastard. Her minutes-old conception was going to become a child someday. A child that would want to be read stories, a child that would be curious about swords and magic, a child that would want to be loved. It struck a sudden, terrible ache in the center of his chest.

“This…this child,” Alistair murmured, breaking the silence. His fingers twisted in the sheets. “You’ll love it, right? You’re not just using it for weird Old God magic preservation or whatever, you’ll really love it?”

“Of course, the child will be loved,” Morrigan replied softly. She didn’t _sound_ offended by his question. “I will be a better mother than my own mother, if that is what you are asking.”

“And Flemeth? She’s not dead, right? What about her?”

“She will not threaten us,” Morrigan said, and Alistair belatedly realized that _us_ meant her and the baby. She was an _us_ now. “There is knowledge in her grimoire that will keep us safe and hidden. I will find a way to kill her permanently, and until then, she will not come for my child as she came for her other daughters. I will kill her as many times as are needed. I will not permit it.”

Alistair considered that this minutes-old conception could very well be another daughter. Morrigan told him the ritual came from Flemeth, a witch who had a lot of daughters but no sons. It settled uneasily in the pit of his stomach that his bastard might be a girl, a wilder girl like her mother. _Well, mages can’t inherit land or titles,_ a more pragmatic part of him thought. “Do you think it’ll be another daughter?” he asked. “A little Witch of the Wilds?”

Morrigan was silent for a long time. Then she said, “I don’t know.”

Alistair felt the mattress shift and glanced over. Morrigan had sat upright and shifted her legs over the edge of the bed. She was leaning forward, her hands planted on either side of her, the knobs of her spine white under her skin. As he watched, she straightened upright and combed her fingers through her dark hair, tying it up in a bun. “You’re leaving?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

It was weird to have Morrigan in his bed, but it was also weird for her to leave. Alistair wanted her to leave, but he didn’t want to throw her out. It seemed…ungentlemanly. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. For this to be behind him and for no one to ever speak of it again, maybe.

“Merely returning to my room,” Morrigan answered without looking at him. She dressed and tightened the laces on her boots. Someone could reasonably guess what she’d been up to that night, with her clothes slightly wrinkled and wispy strands of black hair falling around her face.

“You don’t _have_ to leave, if you don’t want to,” Alistair said as he sat upright. He remained on the bed, unable to stand. Now she was clothed and he was naked. It made him feel even more self-conscious than before, and his fingers itched to throw a pillow over his lap. “I—I mean, you don’t have to _stay_ , either, but I wasn’t going to kick you out—”

“I prefer to sleep alone,” Morrigan cut him off. Her face was turned away from him, and her tone was brisk and distant. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Good night, Alistair.”

That was that.

“Good night, Morrigan,” Alistair replied. He watched as she departed from his room and drew the door shut behind her. A storm of confusion held him there, releasing only once he knew that he was well and truly alone. He flopped back onto the bed and covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Maker.” He wasn’t sure if he was praying or swearing.

It was done. There was nothing more he could do except get a few hours of sleep before morning.

***

The castle was roused before first light. Alistair had forgotten just how unbelievably cold the castle could be first thing in the morning: it was huge and arid, the stone permanently cold to the touch. Something about the mountains and the lake and the winter still in retreat. He washed and dressed in his armor and stood shivering beside his fire for as long as he could possibly get away with.

A knock at the door pried Alistair away from the fireplace. He was hoping for something warm to eat, but the door opened to reveal Grecia. She was fully dressed in her leathers, with the pale-faced, drawn look of a woman who had slept poorly the night before. Her longbow and quiver were slung over her back.

“The army is preparing to march,” Grecia told him in a stiff, business-like tone. “Come join us in the main hall when you’re ready.” Then she turned to leave.

“Wait, Grecia,” Alistair called, following her out into the hall.

Grecia stopped and looked back at him warily. She looked exhausted but had made the attempt to present herself respectably. Her auburn hair was drawn high and out of her face, a lock of her hair braided and wrapped around the base. It appeared that her armor had been recently cleaned, her longbow recently polished.

Alistair fell silent. He had her attention, but he was suddenly too nervous to speak. _Apologize for being an arse last night._ ”A-about last night,” he forced himself to start. “I should apologize for the tone I took with you. It wasn’t fair of me. I—I’m sorry.”

Grecia faced him again. “There is no need for you to apologize.” Her eyes left his face and settled on a distant point on the wall as she spoke. “I was asking far too much of you.”

“I did it, though. _That_. With Morrigan.” Alistair glanced at the castle guard as he spoke, but they weren’t the cause of his euphemisms. He was still wrapping his head around what happened last night. It felt like a terrible dream. “I just wanted you to know.”

Grecia nodded. “You are…a better friend than I deserve,” she said, surprising him with a small, brittle smile. Then she inhaled deeply and turned away from him, preparing to leave. When she spoke again, her voice was steady and strong. “Arl Eamon awaits us in the main hall. There is much to discuss before we march. Come down soon.”

***

Alistair ducked into his bedchamber for his sword and shield. His sword was a standard-issue longsword—or as standard as the Grey Wardens could issue—but his shield had once belonged to Duncan. Part of a ceremonial set for the Commander of the Grey. But the Grey Wardens didn’t do ceremony much: the shield was well-crafted enough to be fit for battle. Alistair fitted the sword around his waist and slung the shield over his back; it clattered dully against his armor. He retrieved the winged helm last and returned to the hall.

“Ah, good, you’re already awake,” Riordan remarked as he approached from behind him. He was dressed in his leathers, twin daggers in their sheaths, his dark hair neatly tied out of his face. “Have you seen Grecia yet this morning?”

“She’s already gone ahead to the main hall,” Alistair replied, gesturing ahead of them. “Arl Eamon wants a word before the army sets out for Denerim.”

Riordan fell in-step with him as they navigated the lofty stone halls of the castle. “Let me apologize again for not discussing certain matters with the two of you before my departure from Denerim,” he apologized. He was careful with his words; they were surrounded by castle guards and bustling servants. “If I had known, I would never have left your company without a warning.”

Alistair waved the apology away. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like we knew that we didn’t know and just didn’t tell you. And we were…” He paused, reflecting on the battle at Ostagar. “We were very green back then, so we weren’t expected to be in the know, as it were. Grecia didn’t even have her Joining until the eve of the battle.”

Riordan chuckled. “Duncan was like that. Left himself a soft spot for his recruits. He wanted them to see all the Grey Wardens had to offer before they found out all the Grey Wardens would take away.” His eyes roamed over the shield strapped to Alistair’s back. “I see you recovered his shield from the vault.”

“Grecia did,” Alistair corrected him, feeling a strange sense of remorse. “She gifted me with it later.”

“I’m sure you’ll get more use out of it than Duncan.” Riordan smirked. “Duncan grew into the responsibility of being the Commander of the Grey, but he never gave up his old habits. He was far more comfortable in leathers with daggers in his hands than locked away in plate like a chevalier.”

“I heard he was a thief, but it’s so hard to imagine,” Alistair confessed. “He always seemed so… _regal_ to me. So self-assured.”

“If I had more time, I would be willing to share some of the stories about him.” Riordan halted at the double-doors that led to the main hall, regarding them soberly. He didn’t move to open them. Instead, he turned his attention back to Alistair. “It appears you are in better spirits than I’d hoped after our conversation last night. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” Alistair admitted. He heard muffled voices coming through the door and the dim, distant creaking of chainmail. Soldiers passing through the castle, the idle gossip of the inhabitants on the other side of the door. “At Ostagar, I was more upset than anything else that we were being tasked with some chore that would keep us out of the battle. And now I’m here and I have this chance to go into that battle—and I’m nervous. Maybe even a little scared.”

“Alistair.” Riordan looked him over for a moment, suddenly looking terribly sad. “You are…very young. You are both very young. It is not ideal that the burden might fall to either of you, particularly in light of recent circumstances, but in the event of my failure…well, it is not unexpected to feel fear in the face of such a calling.”

Alistair held his gaze. He was struck by the powerful impulse to tell him the truth: about the ritual, the sex, what would happen to the soul of the Old God. Riordan knew what was supposed to happen when an Archdemon was cut down. He would know that something was amiss if he beheaded the dragon and _nothing_ happened. And his mind wouldn’t _immediately_ jump to weird magical sex, but he would know that something else interfered.

If it worked, anyway.

There was still the chance that Morrigan was lying. Alistair sincerely doubted that she was—maybe he just hoped, so it wouldn’t be real, so his bastard child wouldn’t be real. But it was wildly uncharacteristic of her to _want_ to touch him, never mind anything else they did the previous night. She had never shown a shred of interest in him, and he’d never felt any interest in her. But even after agreeing, a thread of doubt lingered.

Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to work. Maybe they would cut down the Archdemon and one of them would die, just as Riordan said. Or maybe it would work, and Riordan—or one of them—would be alive, staring down at the corpse of the Archdemon with no reasonable explanation for their survival.

“I know this is a heavy burden to bear, Alistair.” Riordan appeared to mistaken his panic for another sort of panic, because he placed a hand on the gap between his neck and his pauldron in a comforting gesture. “Our duty is a somber one, but if we succeed, the Blight ends here. Duncan trusted you with this burden, as do I. And so does all of Ferelden. Even if they don’t know it.”

_We’re not going to die in the battle. It’s going to be alright._ The words were there on the back of his tongue, but they got stuck on the way out. Alistair looked at him without speaking, then numbly clasped his own hand over Riordan’s. “R-right,” he said uneasily. “We should…go on in. They’re waiting for us. But thank you.” Alistair tugged open the door, and Riordan followed him into the main hall.

Alistair wasn’t sure if he wanted last night to mean something or if he expected it to fail. Because it came from Morrigan, and before her, it came from Flemeth. But they were past the point of objections. The darkspawn were marching on Denerim. If Riordan survived the battle to know something else had interfered, then he would deal with it then. As king. But none of it mattered until the Archdemon was dead and the Blight was ended.


End file.
